


Neon Red Moon

by EmeraldTrident



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Cannibalism, Frottage, Gore, M/M, Main Character Death, Necromancy, Necrophilia, Romance, This is a love story, Thoughts of Suicide, Tragic Romance, Witchcraft, Zombie Will, blood play but during a dream sequence, but he's already dead, graphic depiction of car wrecks, graphic depictions of gore and bodily trauma, kinda but only after he's reanimated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldTrident/pseuds/EmeraldTrident
Summary: Hannibal Lecter, retired from his life of murder, has settled down for a quiet life alone, owning and running his own mortuary. He's content and enjoys his life of solitude, until a body is delivered one rainy evening. The body of a freshly dead man named Will Graham, who Hannibal swears is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid his eyes on.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 59
Kudos: 75





	1. The Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> I did research but I’m sure I got the mortuary process wrong in some aspects. If you’re well-versed on what happens when you die, please just suspend reality and pretend like this is all factual, please and thank you! 
> 
> This story will have multiple parts. I’m not sure how many chapters it will be! I will decide as I go! 
> 
> I started outlining this story in May 2020! I'm happy to finally get the first chapter out! Please enjoy!

It was a night like any other, as mundane and typical as Hannibal was used to. The coroner’s van pulled into the small circular driveway as the rain came down thick and heavy, pounding deep melodic music on the tin awning above. The air was dense with humidity. It was just past two in the morning but Hannibal had not been asleep. The early morning hours were when he was the very most busy. Between midnight and sunrise were when the most bodies were always delivered. 

Hannibal had an odd sleep schedule because of his profession, typically keeping to one that had him catching a maximum of six hours of rest between mid-morning to mid-afternoon. Sunlight finally making its way over the hills to the left of the mortuary was his daily signal to clock out and force himself to get some sleep. 

He had owned the morgue for seven years and worked there alone, living in a small flat on the second story. He had no days off, but it was a peaceful life. He was lonely, but the work kept him busy. It was a good distraction from the intrusive thoughts telling him to once again become the monster he was before all of this. He was an expert at silencing those intrusions and negative voices after seven years of practice. 

Hannibal stared at the dry concrete below him as the driver came around to the back of the van to open the doors and assist in lowering the body, covered in a white sheet stained with blood, onto a gurney. 

“Good night so far, Lecter?” The driver said as he wheeled the body toward the edge of the van’s opening and lowered it onto an electric pulley. 

Hannibal nodded, his lips thin. The bags under his eyes and gaunt face told the story of his exhaustion. This was the fourth body he had been delivered that evening, so far. Hannibal was well acquainted with every driver, there were three in the town to match the three different mortuaries. They rotated the dead every third body, which meant over twelve people had died in town that evening alone, which was high, even for Baltimore’s standards. Even on a Saturday night. 

“What happened to this one?” Hannibal asked as the body on its pan latched onto the gurney. Hannibal clicked it so the pan was adjusted and tied the straps over the dead’s chest and thighs so it wouldn’t slip off. 

“Car wreck. Poor fucker,” the driver said. “Truck in front of him stopped short and this guy’s car went straight through the back of it. Truck was hauling PVC pipes, pre-cut, sharp as fucking knives. Went straight through the front window. One through the neck, one through the chest, the other took his left arm completely off. He was dead before the ambulance arrived.” 

Hannibal didn’t so much as wince but simply nodded. He had heard of many horrific ways to die, seen the worst of it. Nothing phased him anymore. Not after the man he used to be. Not after everything he had seen on the job. He was numb to it all. 

Death was an inevitable friend. 

The driver shut the doors and walked to get back into his van. “Hopefully this is the last one tonight. See you later.” 

Hannibal wheeled the gurney up and into the mortuary through the automatic glass doors and straight into his workshop. The body Hannibal had been working on previously was in the center of the room. A middle-aged woman who had been partially decapitated while trying to escape a house fire the evening prior. 

Classical music was playing from an MP3 player plugged into a small speaker in the corner of the room. Hannibal preferred listening to music while he worked over a television show or anything with words. It helped clear his head and relax him. 

Hannibal pushed the gurney holding the new body so it was perpendicular to his current project and made quick work of the straps holding it down. He needed to put the body away in one of the refrigerated drawers until he was ready to work on it, but first he needed to undress, clean, and prep the body for overnight. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect. Not expecting anything, really, when he pulled the blood-stained sheet back. But with one look at the dead man’s face he found himself frozen in place staring down at the man’s features, studying him, calculating him. Hannibal didn’t know the man, had never seen him before, and yet he was drawn to him. 

The dead man’s eyes were half-closed and glassy, void of the spark of life. Like empty spheres, no emotion behind them. Gone. He had a five inch diameter hole through his chest that had bled profusely, spilling all around his chest, drenching his cotton shirt in blood all the way down to his navel and the wound was still gushing, though not nearly as bad as it had been. Such was the same story as the big chunk of flesh taken from the side of his neck, and his missing left arm which lay unattached near his feet. The pan beneath the man’s body was covered in drying blood and the man had already begun to turn pale and stiff from necrosis and yet Hannibal swore he had never seen anything, or anyone, more beautiful in his life. 

Hannibal rarely, if ever, saw the bodies he prepared as past-humans. Always treating them like sacks of meat he worked on for his profession, nothing more. His meal-ticket, literally and figuratively. Never once had Hannibal looked at one of the bodies and wondered what they were like when they were alive. Never before did he find himself fantasizing about what the person sounded like, what their voice was like, their laugh, until he had wheeled this man into his mortuary. 

The man was handsome, even in death. He had curly brown hair and a chiseled jaw peppered in stubble. His mouth was slightly open and his plump lips had already begun turning a light shade of violet. He also wore glasses, which were useless now. Hannibal removed them and folded them into his surgical coat pocket and continued staring at the man. _What was his story? What was his name?_ Hannibal reached for the clipboard supplied over the man’s groin folded against the sheet and read his information. 

**Name** : William Anthony Graham 

**D.O.B** : May 14, 1975 

**D.O.D** : October 27, 2013 

**Organ donor** : No.

***Disposal of body order. No funeral desired. No living family. Cremation.***

_William. Will?_

Hannibal thought the name again and again in his head, matching the dead man’s face to the name for a few moments before he realized what the state was demanding him to do. 

When there weren’t any living relatives or close friends listed in one’s testament of death to hold a funeral, a body was set for disposal. He was trash, in the state’s eyes. Trash to be burned and forgotten. Which was why his body was haphazardly slapped onto the pan, why it was in a pool of its own drying blood. He was useless if he wasn't needed for a showing. He didn't want a funeral, he had signed a document stating such when he was alive. Hannibal had seen it multiple times in the past, but it was rare. Typically such an order was expected of homeless persons, but not someone like this.

His body was meant to burn to ash in eighteen-hundred-degree flames. 

But Hannibal couldn't imagine destroying such beauty, though he knew it was inevitable. 

Cremated bodies without homes were kept in the crematorium closet along with ashes of nameless Jane and John Does. But no, that felt wrong. Hannibal couldn’t just burn this man’s body and put him away, with common folk. It didn’t seem right. Maybe Hannibal could keep his ashes upstairs in his flat? No. That would be ludicrous. Hannibal didn’t know the man. Why would he want to keep him in his living quarters? 

Hannibal shook his head, focusing on the classical music coming from the speaker in the corner and cleared his head to focus on the task at hand rather than his conflicting thoughts. He needed to clean the man and put him away for the evening. He grabbed a pair of scissors and began to cut the clothes off the man’s body, first his shirt, then his pants. 

The man’s body wasn’t extremely muscular, nor was it thin. He had a smidgen of extra body fat around his abdomen and thighs, and he didn’t have much in the way of body hair, only small bits around his nipples and pubic area. 

Hannibal didn’t lust for the man’s body but he stared for a moment, admiring him. He placed his palm over the man’s chest, next to the gaping wound. The flesh there still held a dull warmth, which Hannibal was surprised by. _He must’ve died less than an hour ago._ The man’s body would be cold as stone soon enough. He savored the warmth while he could. It made him seem alive. 

Hannibal felt a little less alone for a moment. 

_How beautiful._

Hannibal couldn’t stop his mind from swimming with thoughts of what Will was like when he was alive. What did his laugh sound like? How did he look when he smiled? His voice, Hannibal would go back on his vow and kill anyone to hear a few seconds of it, without hesitation. 

He was curious, longing, wanting desperately to force time to reverse so he could intervene in the car wreck that took the man’s life. He wanted to save him, like some corny film from the nineteen-eighties and make up a stranger’s excuse, ask him to a late dinner and coffee to keep him off the road, pay for the meal, tell him a joke to hear his laugh, maybe even hold his hand if he was feeling brave enough. 

Hannibal found himself frozen by the dead body’s side, lost in thought and fantasy of something that would never happen. 

_What’s wrong with me?_

Bodies were mere objects, empty shells. That’s the way Hannibal had always treated them. Meat and a meal ticket. Not something to sit and fawn over. This was strange even for him. 

Hannibal shook his head, jolting himself out of his unattainable fantasy. He needed to turn in early. It was obvious his mind had completely broken and it was best for everything involved if he left the situation. His own desires were scaring even himself. 

He draped the sheet back over Will’s body and wheeled him toward the refrigerated drawer to slide him in. He would finish working on him in the morning. After the pan holding Will’s body was inside, Hannibal stared for a moment longer before shutting the steel door. 

_Goodnight._

Hannibal went back to his previous project and began getting her ready for her own respective drawer. He would finish her in the morning as well, making sure to bag both of her kidneys and liver and set them aside. He slid her into her drawer and went back to grab his bag of offal before turning the lights out and heading upstairs to his flat. 

Once inside he took the bag of organs to his refrigerator, meticulously placing them inside in a row to lay next to the other pieces of his culinary collection. Hearts. Lungs. Any organ that passed through his mortuary that wasn’t damaged or cancerous was his for the taking. The bag was already labeled with a date, to match the others. They would make for a fantastic meal sometime soon. 

Before he had changed, decided to become the opposite of the monster was, he would murder for the taste of human flesh. Now it arrived to his front door like something akin to a pizza service, ripe for the taking. 

All it took was some falsing reports and fake biohazard trash weights and he was free to continue fulfill his cannibalistic desires without killing anyone. He could still indulge in human flesh, free of guilt. 

It was a good life. 

Hannibal stumbled to his bedroom, exhaustion already beginning to hit him, but before he allowed himself to fall asleep he disabled his doorbell, an electronic voice communication system that alerted him whenever a driver needed to deliver a new body. 

It was a common occurrence that bodies needed to be delivered during Hannibal’s sleeping hours, so the system was installed, but Hannibal, leaving his post early that evening, didn’t want to risk being woken when his mind and body were so desperately in need of rest. Though a new body being delivered after 3am was rare, most bodies were delivered immediately after bars closing and none really afterward at all. He didn’t want to take that chance. 

If anyone called upon him they would assume his mortuary was full and could not fit any more bodies and move on. 

Surely, his fatigue was the reason for his attachment to the man, the corpse, this...Will. In the morning everything, his brain included, would be back to normal, Hannibal was positive of it. 

He undressed to his briefs before sliding under his comforter and allowing sleep to take him. 

He had placed the man’s glasses on his bedside table. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Rocks skipped across the water in the late morning hour, the sun was high in the sky casting a shadow against the orange leaves surrounding the pond. It was late autumn in Lithuania. 

Hannibal looked down into the water and saw his reflection there as he scrambled for more rocks to toss in the shallow area of the water. 

A young child around the age of eleven looked back at him. He pocketed the best rocks, flat and with the correct amount of curve and stood to begin his second round of skipping when a loud gunshot rang through the forest causing the young boy to jolt. He froze in fear for a moment, unsure of who the hunted was. 

He heard an animal cry out in the forest close to him. It was in pain. It was dying. 

Hannibal dropped his collection of rocks all at once, leaving them abandoned by the pond’s edge as he raced toward the sound of the crying animal. 

His upper arm scratched against a nearby tree in his haste, cutting himself deeply but he put that behind him. He was desperate to get to the injured creature. 

He made his way through the brush, swatting branches out of his way, until he landed upon it. A young deer was laying in a bed of leaves, crying faintly and struggling to breathe, trying desperately to suck in its final breaths. 

Hannibal knelt down next to the animal, his hands shaking. He pet its side and it bucked a bit toward him, unsure of Hannibal at first but calmed when it realized he wasn’t a threat. Hannibal sang him a tune, tears gathering on his lower lids as the light faded from the young deer’s eyes. 

Hannibal continued stroking the animal, tears falling down his cheeks when he heard the crunching of leaves yards away. He perked up and saw through the brush of green and orange, the hunter walking toward them. 

Without a second thought, Hannibal picked the deer up into his arms, staining his shirt with blood, and ran as fast as his little legs could carry him. 

He heard the angry hunter shouting at him as he ran, cursing him for stealing his prize, but Hannibal didn’t let up, continuing to sprint back home. 

He prayed that his aunt wasn’t home as he crashed into the back door, out of sight of anyone who may have wondered what a young boy was doing hauling a deceased deer barely smaller than himself. 

The house was empty, which Hannibal was thankful for. He didn’t want to have to explain any of his actions. He brought the deer into his room and placed it the ground before quickly gathering a few towels to place underneath the animal. He would never have been able to explain the blood stains to his aunt. 

With skilled, calm movements, Hannibal reached for a book he kept under his bed. An old library book he had forgotten to return ages ago. 

A book on witchcraft. 

He hadn’t read much of it, but he remembered a specific spell. It was worth a shot, even if Hannibal wasn’t sure it would work. He flipped through the book, muttering a Lithuanian curse word under his breath, desperate to locate it quickly, unsure of if there was any sort of time limit. 

He found the page and set it open near his knees. _Reanimating Animals._ He placed his hand on the deer’s torso and uttered a spell. He placed his hand on the deer’s head and muttered a different iteration of the same words. And then again at the base of the deer’s spine. The words were written in Latin and Hannibal wasn’t positive he was pronouncing them correctly but he continued just the same. He did another round of the same spells. Head. Torso. Spine. And a third time before closing his eyes and saying a personal prayer to anyone or any entity that could be listening. 

Hannibal kept his hand on the deer’s torso, near the blood wound, and breathed in and out slowly, as the page directed, attempting to breathe life into the animal through his fingers. 

He shifted in his seated position and grimaced, when nothing was happening, but didn’t dare open his eyes. He continued to breathe. 

“Tu gali tai padaryti.” (You can do it). 

He muttered it again. 

_Tu gali tai padaryti_

_Tu gali tai padaryti_

Hannibal’s hand was shaking but went perfectly still when he felt movement underneath his palm. He peeked out of one eye before opening both fully. The deer was breathing and it’s bullet wound was no longer spilling, but a small concaved area of healed flesh. 

He gasped looking quickly to the deer’s eyes to see they were open. He didn’t get a moment to think before the deer was scrambling up and running from the room, knocking young Hannibal down.

Hannibal quickly got up and ran after it to see the tail of the deer as it raced out of the back door. 

  
  


* * *

Hannibal’s eyes opened all at once from sleep, staring into the corner of his sunlit bedroom as he processed his dream. It was a rare occurrence that Hannibal dreamt, but when he did, it was usually one of his suppressed memories rather than something fictional and made up by his brain for subconscious entertainment. 

It had all happened so long ago, over thirty-years had passed since what had occurred with the deer. So long that Hannibal wasn’t sure anymore if it had really happened. He had been so young.

Perhaps he had been mistaken, maybe the deer hadn’t really been dead. Memories were distorted over time. But no, he remembered the blood, remembering being punished with extra chores for weeks for messing up his aunt’s towels. Hannibal remembered clearly that the deer was dead. Its heart had stopped. Hannibal saw life fade from its eyes and fill with life once more after the spell was muttered. He had performed some kind of magic, something impossible, something beautiful. 

* * *

Hannibal attempted to ignore his dream as he prepared himself breakfast. Eggs with diced pieces of kidney, and a steaming cup of black gourmet espresso, a favorite of his.

He wasn’t going to pretend to be ignorant about the meaning or timing of the dream, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as much as he could. 

It would be a very busy day and he was already running late on three funeral home pick-ups so the less distracted he could be, the better. 

As Hannibal worked, embalmed, dissected, poked and prodded in dead flesh, he couldn’t help his eyes from flickering to the closed drawer. Third from the right and second down. 

He had memorized his name. 

_William Anthony Graham._

It repeated in his head like a song, reverberating off his unconsciousness into the forefront of his mind until he would push it back again, to no avail. It never stayed there for long. He tried, in vain, but couldn’t halt his mind from dipping into fantasies once more. 

The peaceful flickering of images and movements in his mind accompanied him all day as he worked. He daydreamt of Will keeping him company, having deep conversations with him over red wine and just enjoying his presence. He imagined how he would move, his mannerisms. A stark contrast to the dead slab of flesh he was now. He imagined Will smiling at him, complimenting him. 

Hannibal’s feet were tingly and warm just thinking about it. 

Hannibal enjoyed being alone. He wasn’t much for being social, feeling like a betrayer of man for his past actions. He felt like people could see through him, to what he had done. He preferred to be on his own. But he wouldn’t mind sharing space with Will, if he were alive. He would quite enjoy it, actually. 

But he wasn’t. 

And his fantasies were falling on an impossibility. 

Or were they? 

Hannibal walked away from his latest project and over to Will’s drawer, his mind and feet carrying him, gravitating him toward the man. He had denied himself for too long, it seemed. 

Opening it up and pulling out the rack his body lay on, Hannibal saw Will’s blood had stained the white sheet even more overnight. 

He moved the sheet back only enough to see the man’s face and collar bones, the wound in his neck had stopped gushing but thick purple veins were visible through the man’s skin like spider webs and he was almost completely white. 

His eyes were still half open, gazing straight up, empty, at nothing. Hannibal’s hand was shaking as he placed his palm against the man’s cheek, against his stone cold skin. All of his warmth from the evening before was long gone. 

“Who were you?” Hannibal whispered, his thumb stroking the man’s cheek. 

He thought of the deer he saved decades ago. 

_Would it work on him? No, surely not. The deer was freshly dead, a single bullet wound. Not mangled like him. Not a_ human _like him._

He thought of the man’s soul, about how he would be robbing their maker of his. How selfish it would be, to steal the man from the afterlife, only so he could hear his voice. 

Such a spell, performed on a human would be demented. An abomination. Worse than every atrocious sin he had ever committed combined. 

Hannibal placed the sheet back over Will’s face and closed the drawer, heading back to his work, determined to get the man, no, no longer a man, the corpse, off his mind.


	2. Succumbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the tags! Also, I believe, at this point, this fic will be four chapters long, but that may change! 
> 
> Please enjoy!

The weight of the entity materialized out of nowhere. The bed hadn’t dipped, the floorboards had not creaked. One moment, Hannibal was lying supine, alone and asleep, and the next, someone was straddling him, tracing the fingers of one hand gently down his bare chest. 

Hannibal opened his eyes, panicked at first, blinking furiously trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the hardly moonlit room, unsure of who or what could be on top of him. His heart slammed in his chest, feeling the entity's digits slowly circle his chest. Their nails were sharp, jagged, but not long. 

Was it a demon? Was his time up? No. His instincts told him it wasn’t dangerous, whatever it was. Though, how had it gotten inside. Nobody owned a key to his flat and the door was always double-bolted shut. 

Hannibal reached to touch the entity but it flinched away from him, not making a single sound. From its backward movement, directly into the thin beam of moonlight, Hannibal was able to make out what it was. 

“Will?” 

The man did not react to his name being spoken, but continued staring down at him, his nails scraping across his lightly-peppered stomach with his right hand. His left arm was missing at the elbow, dangling uselessly. He was naked. 

“Why are you here? How?” 

The man did not speak, continuing to touch him, making the occasional eye contact for a moment before flittering away. His expression was completely blank. 

“Are you going to hurt me?” 

Will didn’t shake his head or nod, but sat completely still. Unblinking. Hannibal could make out the wound, the large chunk of flesh taken from the side of the man’s neck, muscles and tendons exposed. It was pulsing gently, but not bleeding, same with his large chest wound. 

“Are you okay?”

Hannibal’s voice hitched at the question, hoping to draw words out of the man. Just a little hint of his voice was all he needed. He could die a happy man if he could just hear one word from the beautiful man’s lips. 

Will’s weight on top of him shifted, forward and back against his hardening cock. Deliberate movements matched with a stone cold expression. 

“Will…” Hannibal gasped, reaching to hold the man’s nude thighs. He didn’t flinch away from his touch again, allowing Hannibal to squeeze and knead his body there. Erratic hands gripping, flexing and relaxing against ice cold plump flesh. 

Will’s movements got faster, pressing down harder against Hannibal’s erection, bouncing up and down in tiny minute movements, continuing to scrape his chest, harder leaving red marks against his chest. 

“Come here,” Hannibal beckoned through a gasp, gripping at Will’s lower back, signaling he wanted him closer. He wanted to hold him. “Please. Come here.” 

Will stilled all at once, his expression unchanging. 

“Do you understand me?” 

Nothing. 

Hannibal tugged further up Will’s back, pulling him against him. Will allowed himself to be manipulated, falling forward in stiff movements until he and Hannibal were nearly chest to chest. Hannibal placed his hand against the man’s cheek, stroking the freezing skin with his thumb. He pressed his lips against Will’s, a long lingering peck against violet lips that didn’t move. 

“Open up for me, beautiful,” he whispered, kissing his closed mouth again. Will’s lips twitched. 

“That’s it,” he coaxed from the corpse. Another press of his lips against him had Will’s opening his mouth and accepting Hannibal’s kiss. Hannibal’s hand was combed through Will’s curls as he pressed him against himself as their tongues and lips moved together. Will’s breath was cold against his tongue. 

Hannibal began to grind his cock up against Will’s, taking advantage of his paramour’s new laying position. Hannibal moaned into Will’s mouth, the pressure of the man above him was driving him quickly to the edge. He was everything he had ever wanted, so suddenly, so completely his. 

Hannibal was nearly there, driven quicker by Will’s responsive hips, grinding down against him. Will’s nude cock and full weight against the comforter. 

Wetness. Hannibal’s face was covered in a surprisingly warm thick liquid. He moved back from their heavy kiss to see the blood, gushing from Will’s neck wound and falling onto his face, covering him and the pillow below him. Will didn’t react, continuing to stare forward into Hannibal’s eyes, but not really there. Through him. 

Hannibal tugged Will against him again, the wound continuing to gush through their kiss. He tasted it, hot and stinking of copper. It was vile, but it was divine. It was him, it was a part of Will, and he wanted to be baptized in it. In every part of him. 

Hannibal groaned against Will’s blood soaked lips, rutting up against him through the comforter as he came.   
  
  


* * *

Hannibal jolted awake, gripping his comforter on either side of his body and breathing heavily. _Just a dream, it was just a dream._ He grimaced at the feeling of his wet briefs against his body. 

It had been years since he had been touched by anyone, it had all happened so quickly.

He shook his head, his palms covering his face for a moment. It had all felt so real. He mourned for his dream lover, the entity. Will. A figment of his desire. He was not with him in the bed, but downstairs in a refrigerated drawer, stuck to a pan full of his own dried and decaying blood. 

This was all getting beyond unhealthy. 

It had been two days. 

He got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. Once there, he cleaned himself up and got a change of briefs. 

_Maybe it’s best if I cremate him tomorrow._ He found himself contemplating. The longer he waited the longer he formed an attachment to the dead slab of meat. _It would probably be best to cut the cord, toss him into the flames. At least then I wouldn’t have a choice to make anymore._

On his way back to his bed he passed his iMac. 

_I wonder…_

He sat down and booted the machine up, grimacing at the sudden bright light of the screen in the darkness. Once the machine was up and running he opened a web browser and Googled the man’s name. 

_William Anthony Graham_

Multiple photos of politicians and professional work profile headshots were displayed in the image search, but none of them were _his_ Will. 

Hannibal tried again.

_William Graham._

The same images populated, as well as some social media profiles. 

Hannibal clicked on the first one. It was for a bald man with three children and a wife from Austin, Texas. The second one yielded a fan page for a singer from Australia. Hannibal’s jaw tensed. 

_Maybe he didn’t have any kind of social media._

Hannibal himself had never found a point in having a social media profile, but he had hoped the man would have had one, if only to see a single photo from when he was alive. 

Maybe then he could let him go. 

He clicked on three more profiles, not yielding any results. He was about to give up when he clicked on another, not expecting anything from a profile picture of a person barely visible, a silhouette of a man fishing against a pink sunset. 

He swore he had found another dud, but continued reading the profile. 

**Will Graham**

**Lives in :** Wolf Trap, Virginia 

**Employed at :** Professor of Forensics at Quantico Training Academy 

**Status :** Single 

**Birthday :** May 14, 1975 

Hannibal remembered that date. 

He quickly scrolled down the page and his heart skipped a beat. 

Dozens of people had commented on his page over the past couple of days. 

_“We miss you, Will. Rest In Peace, friend.”_

_“You were the best professor I’ve ever had. You’ll be missed.”_

_“You were always kind. You didn’t deserve this! We love you.”_

_“I bet you’re fishing in heaven, man. ✝️”_

_“I’m going to be a better FBI agent because of you. We miss you, Professor Graham.”_

Hannibal scrolled through each message, slowly reading and ingesting them all. He hadn’t realize he had been crying, and tears were streaking his face, until the very last message. 

Hannibal Lecter had always seen the behind the scenes of death. He prepared people’s empty vessels for burial or cremation, without batting an eye. Never once had he thought at length about those vessels once holding souls that were loved by so many people. 

_And he didn’t want a funeral._

Every comment was kind, praising Will for his intellect, his teaching skills, and his generosity. 

Will Graham had been a good man. 

And now he was dead, destined to become ash. 

For someone who used to take life, and now meddled uncaringly in death daily, the realization was hitting Hannibal remarkably hard. 

He hadn’t felt anything in years, not physically, not emotionally, and because of Will, this dead man, this _nothing_ by anyone’s standards, he was discovering the preciousness of life. 

He needed to meet him.

He would do anything it took to meet him. If only for a moment. 

He was decided. He was going to try to bring him back. 

Hannibal clicked on Will’s profile picture, the silhouette of him holding a cast fishing pole against a sunset. He couldn’t see his face but he could make out his curls under a ball cap. He didn’t have any other profile pictures but he saw he was tagged in a video. 

Hannibal clicked on it quickly. 

The video belonged to someone named Brian Zeller. Hannibal watched as it started. Shifting forward in his seat to get a better view. 

He was in a bar, filming someone playing billiards, a young Korean woman. “Ah, dammit!” She said as the ball she was shooting ricocheted off the side and toward the other end of the table. The music in the bar was loud, but not so much that the words weren’t audible. 

“Tough luck, Bev,” the man filming the video said. “You’d better get that checkbook ready.” 

“I’m going to win,” she said, a smirk on her face and twinkle in her eye, walking to the table in the corner to grab a swig of her neglected beer. 

“Yeah yeah,” the man filming said. 

_Was that him?_

Hannibal couldn’t see the man filming but the video belonging to someone else made him believe it wasn’t. 

“Your turn,” Zeller said in a singsong voice, turning the camera toward a man sitting at one of the nearby tables. 

Hannibal’s heart stopped beating. 

“Show Beverly that once again, it’s a bad idea to challenge the great Professor Graham at pool.” 

Will laughed, shaking his head and taking a swig of his own beer. 

_His laugh._

_His smile._

Hannibal wanted to reach through the screen and save him from his eventual fate, to ravage him, hold him, the desire to save him was painful. Like a dagger directly through his own heart. He was precious to him, and they’d never spoken a single word to one another. 

Hannibal pressed his palm against the screen stroking his thumb against the glass as he watched the rest of the video. 

Will got up, his cue in his hand. He walked over to the chalk and coated the tip and his palms before positioning himself behind the white ball. He was about to make his shot, cocking back on the cue. 

“Hey, is that a dog over there?” The woman named Beverly shouted. 

Will, jolted out of concentration, looked up and to where Beverly was focused. The woman laughed, seeing Will’s forlorn reaction at the fake distraction. 

“Nice try,” Will said, a smirk on his lips. 

_His voice._

He got back in the zone and shot the cue forward slamming one of the striped balls into a hole. 

Will’s lip twitched in victory and walked to settle himself behind the ball again, positioning himself and slamming the second ball in. 

“You’re an asshole,” Beverly said, swigging her beer again. 

“You know better to challenge him at his own game.” Zeller said from behind the camera. 

“Corner pocket,” Will gestured his head toward the right corner and sunk the black eight ball into the hole. 

Beverly sighed and began rifling through her bag, slamming a hundred dollar bill into Will’s awaiting hand. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, walking across to the bartender and ordering another round for them all and a kind, almost inaudible muttering of “keep the change”. 

The video ended. 

And Hannibal played it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

He didn’t care if he had to steal the man’s soul directly from God himself, he would meet Will Graham. 

* * *

The spell said blood moon. 

The next blood moon wasn’t for a week, but Hannibal made the most out of those seven days. He cleaned Will’s body and cauterized his gaping wounds, moving him to a new clean rack and into the coldest refrigerator on the lower left. 

He wanted to make him as presentable as possible, but nothing he did got rid of the stench. Hannibal was used to the smell of the dead, but Will was a different case. His body had been untouched since his death and his organs were rotting inside him. His skin was beginning to crack at the joints. 

_The spell will fix it._ He told himself again and again. 

Every day leading up to the blood moon, Hannibal continued work as normally as he could, while fighting off the fantasies of Will sitting on the counter overseeing his work and keeping him company. 

He knew the man’s voice now, so his mind could string together any sentence he wanted the man to say. He lost himself in daydreams as he worked. 

He tried to suppress the fantasies, because, what if he was unsuccessful? What if the spell didn’t work and he had gotten himself excited over the prospect of having the man in his life? 

What if he hated him? 

Hannibal thought about that a lot. He wasn’t particularly expecting a romance to blossom between them, but as long as Will didn’t hate him, he would be happy. He only wanted his friendship. Would even that be difficult to earn? 

Hannibal hated how much he was overthinking everything. He needed Wednesday to come, and quickly. 

* * *

Five candles stationed at each point of the deceased’s body, a blood moon, and an item that once belonged to the dead were all present. He had everything he needed, having memorized the new spell by heart over the past week. 

Hannibal placed Will’s glasses next to the candle near his head and sat back on his knees. He had dressed Will’s body in clothing of his own. A simple navy blue t-shirt and slacks. He didn’t want Will to feel immodest. 

He had turned off the lights in the morgue, and placed Will’s body on the marble floor, after disabling his doorbell. It was half-past four in the morning, but he didn’t want to take any chances of being interrupted by a driver 

Will’s half-open cloudy eyes were staring straight up, as they always had been. That was where Hannibal was going to focus during the spell. He wanted the first thing he saw of Will’s living body to be his eyes. 

He took a deep and shaky breath. 

_Please don’t hate me._

He began to recite the Latin spell slowly by heart, staring at the man’s face. He placed his hand against Will’s neck and arm and chest, all of his places of immense trauma, while reciting. He placed his hand on Will’s forehead and muttered the spell again, breathing slowly in and out, passing some of his life force into the corpse. He waited a long moment. 

Nothing. 

“Please. Come to me, Will. Find your way back to your vessel. Follow my voice.” 

He recited the spell again. Neck, arm, chest, forehead. 

A tear streaked down Hannibal’s cheek. 

It wasn’t working. 

“Please, Will.” 

He tried again. To no avail. 

_Maybe I waited too long. I should have tried it the same night he came in. I waited too long. It’s my fault. It’s my fault._

“You can do it.” He choked out a sob, a mental picture of Will’s body burning from cremation flickering in his head. He didn’t want to have to do that. Never. He would never do that, he wiped his tears again and grit his teeth. 

“Follow my voice, Will. You don’t know me, but...I love you.” 

He tried one last time. 

He recited the spell slowly, finishing and closing his eyes, lacing his fingers with Will’s. He stroked his thumb across the cold flesh. 

“Please,” he whispered, squeezing his hand. 

He waited a full minute, refusing to open his eyes and accept that it was over. He began to cry. 

“I love you,” Hannibal sighed. He would be honored to carry his love’s ashes in a necklace vial. He moved to get up and let Will’s hand go when he felt a twitch of flesh. 


	3. To Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes ; the beginning of this chapter is potentially upsetting, please read with caution!

_  
“Breathe into me and make me real” - Evanescence_

  
Lights flashed, different colors, without a subject to illuminate, changing tone and vibrancy every second.

It was nothing to make sense of, which was part of the weightless splendor. Nothing to overthink on, freedom of the mind. 

The peace they always speak about. 

It was not a body, nor human eyes, witnessing the beauty, the terror of falling, tumbling through figurative space toward an unknown destination. 

It didn’t feel like falling, that was a bodily feeling. There was no stomach to turn, no worry of injury. 

He just...was. 

Nothing was clear and nothing was abnormal. Nothing was anticipated, and nothing was to fear. 

The slam of marble stopped him from descending any further, grounding him somewhere strange, somewhere new. 

Somewhere he was not meant to be. 

A dull crackle of static began to roar in his ears, drowning out all of his senses. After a few moments, it straightened out to complete silence. 

Paralyzed. 

He couldn’t move. 

He couldn’t see.

But he could hear. 

Whispered words, desperate in tone, but he could not make sense of them. He could feel touch, his hand being held and stroked. 

His own hand twitched in response.

The hand holding his got very still. 

He focused all his energy toward the digits of his hand, staring up into complete darkness. He curled his fingers, holding onto the flesh touching his. 

Was this another lesson? Another flashback to life? 

When had anyone ever touched him so gently? 

He tried to flex the digits of his other hand. 

He couldn’t. 

His eyelids began flickering quickly, drawing in flashes of dull orange light against the darkness. He tried to move the fingers on his left side again to match the right. Nothing was moving. 

There was nothing there. 

The flickering of his eyelids stopped and he closed them all at once. His neck tilted back and he gasped, sucking in a large audible breath, as though he had been stuck underwater for hours.

He tried to retreat his hand from the invisible vice holding his fingers but was unsuccessful. His body wracked, and his left arm slammed against the marble again and again trying desperately to feel something that wasn’t there. 

His eyes slammed open. 

He could see the flickerings of fire in his peripheral vision, candles surrounding his body, and a faceless shadow to his right. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Will heard the shadow whisper. 

Will’s eyes grew wider trying to focus on the entity and make sense of where he was. Of what was happening. 

Where am I? He tried to say out loud but his throat wasn’t allowing the words to come out. A small croak replaced his attempt. 

The hand in his was trembling. 

Will focused on his left side, the side that wasn’t moving. What’s wrong? 

There was no arm, nothing below the elbow. It stopped at a rounded stump. 

He cried out in agony at the sight. A deep bellow, not rooted in pain, he couldn’t feel anything, but at the sudden realization. 

He was maimed. He was amputated against his will. 

What did you do to me?! Will tried to scream. But nothing was intelligible. He rocked back away from the shadow, using all of his strength to rip his hand out of the shadow’s and scramble, trying to get up. He fell before he could right himself, not able to keep balance or get up with one arm. 

He was kidnapped, tortured, and now he couldn’t speak. What had this person done to him? He tried again to get up, knocking over a couple of candles in the process. Floundering in pure terror. 

He was almost up when the shadow enveloped him from behind. He flailed his one good arm and began hitting it, dry sobbing. His arm was quickly pinned down against himself by the entity to prevent any more violent swings. What was happening? Was anyone coming to rescue him? How long had he been with this psycho? 

How had he gotten here? 

He didn’t remember a thing. 

Would he die here? 

The shadow smoothed his hair back and shushed him softly while he struggled. “It’s okay,” the shadow’s voice cracked. It sounded like a man. “I’m...sorry. Maybe I made a mistake. I didn’t think you’d be so…upset.” 

“Who…” Will was able to get out. His throat was so dry. “Who...ar…” 

He felt a tear fall against his cheek. The shadow was crying. 

“I just wanted to meet you. I’m so sorry,” the man said, his voice cracking with emotion.

_Meet me?_

Will focused his eyes in the dark and saw a bit of the room around them. The candles still standing didn't illuminate much except the things directly in their vicinity. He could make out the steel table and the black and white pattern of the marble floor, but still couldn’t make out the shadow’s face. Nothing gave him a clue of where he could possibly be. 

“I’ll explain everything,” the shadow said. “Just...you can’t run.” 

Will nodded, a quick terse movement of his neck. He wanted information, and quickly. 

“Relax your hand,” the shadow said, wrapping his hand around his.

Will allowed himself to be manipulated, as they lay together on the hard marble floor. The man’s arm was still holding him against his body so he couldn’t get away. 

His plan was to play into this shadow’s mind tricks and placate him, until he could get away. He would do whatever he had to. 

The shadow, holding his appendage, guided his hand, up to his own neck. “Feel,” he directed, gently. Will could hear the nervousness in the shadow’s tone. 

What was he wanting him to do exactly? His own hand touched his neck in the front, nothing felt out of the ordinary. The shadow’s hand guided him more to the left until he felt it. There was a large sunken chunk taken out of the side of his neck. Completely gone. Covered in a thin layer of soft new skin. But not a wound that anyone could have possibly survived from. 

“Wh...wha…”

“I’m going to lift up your shirt now,” the shadow warned, before lifting the cotton and guiding Will’s hand and fingers to feel just over his own heart, directly in the middle of his chest. His fingers moved gently exploring the large sunken hole, four inches deep, covered with the same new skin like from the side of his neck. 

_What is this?_

“Don’t be scared,” the shadow reiterated again. “I’m not here to hurt you. I brought you back.” 

“B...back?” Will was able to get out. 

The shadow paused. Taking time to work up the courage to tell him. 

“You’ve been dead for over a week.” 

* * *

Music wasn’t something Will Graham typically listened to while he drove. On normal nights, he enjoyed the silence, it gave him time to think and enjoy being alone. To focus on the rumble of the engine through the steering wheel and enjoy the feeling of the wind in his hair, on nights that were accompanied by good weather. 

Except for that evening. 

That evening he was pounding music through his car, rattling the steel enough to keep himself from falling asleep at the wheel. It was just past one in the morning, and he had been up since very early the day before giving lectures. 

The rain was coming down hard, and his journey home would take just over an hour.

He patted his own cheek, attempting to rouse himself, focusing on the highway ahead. It wouldn’t be too long until he was home. All he had to do was pay attention to the task at hand. 

He had been so stupid, going out so late. It was completely unlike himself. On a typical night he was home and in bed by nine. He led a rather ordinary life. 

But he had been desperate to feel something. To spend time with someone who might want him. The feeling of loneliness had been gnawing at him for months. He wanted to find someone to share his home with. To share his life with. 

It had been years since he had had anyone in his life to love, and to hold. Nearly a decade. And that late evening was the only night that week the woman he had met on the dating website could possibly meet up. 

They had gotten along well over the internet, but the date had been a disaster. 

“Do you have pets?” Will had asked, taking a pull of his whiskey. They had been sat in a corner booth of the restaurant and bar. 

“No,” she had said, making a subtle but disgusted face.

“I have dogs,” Will said. “Six of them. They’re all very well behaved and trained.” 

“I bet your house is covered in dog fur,” she said, wrinkling her nose. 

“Well, it is their home too,” Will said, cowering under his date’s distaste. He had many photos of his dogs on his dating profile, had she not bothered to look? 

“They can’t just sleep outside?” 

Will shook his head, desperate to change the subject. It had been a long time since he had been on a date. Maybe he was coming off too strong. He should get off the subject his date didn’t enjoy. 

“Tell me about yourself,” he had said, giving the woman the floor. 

“Do you really care?” she said. “You haven’t looked me in the eye once.” 

“Sorry,” he said, looking up and back down immediately. 

He had never been great with eye contact. 

Will grit his teeth as he drove, mourning the excitement he had had on his way to the date. Will had made the reservation in Baltimore a week in advance. He had been confident she could be someone worth loving. 

He had been wrong. 

As always. 

His colleagues hadn’t invited him out in months, and the only beings he spoke to besides his students were his dogs. It was a quiet and mostly stress-free life, and he made decent money. He couldn't complain. He only wished he had someone to come home to, to get excited for. Someone to paint his world from grey and drab into vibrant colors, as they always say in cheesy romantic films. 

Let it find you. Don’t look for it. Love will find you when the time is right. 

He reminded himself of the common adage. 

But he had been waiting for years, and nothing ever changed. 

Maybe I’m just meant to be alone. 

He continued to drive, focusing on the lyrics to the music pounding through his car, trying to forget the painful feeling of disappointment. 

He saw his bed in his mind as he drove, fantasizing about how nice it would feel once he slipped in between the warm sheets, his dogs surrounding him. He closed his eyes for a second and opened them quickly once he realized he had swerved a bit out of his lane. 

“Come on,” he patted his own cheek hard again, talking to himself. He shook his head and focused on the road. 

The rain was louder than the music, beating down heavy on the roof of the car and the traffic was becoming difficult to see through the torrential downpour. 

He considered pulling off the freeway to a gas station to wait out the storm, maybe take a little catnap, but he thought better of it. 

I have to work tomorrow. I have to be up in five hours. Just get home. 

He was doing well for a while, when the drowsiness became unbearable. 

He closed his eyes for a split second without realizing the traffic had come to a sudden stop. 

Three pipes crashed through the windshield and tore through his body, killing him instantly. 

* * *

Will remembered it all at once.

He began to sob, facing the other way but clutching to the shadow holding him with his one good hand. 

His life hadn’t been perfect, or exciting, but it had been worth living. 

The shadow held him for an hour while he cried. He didn’t produce a single tear, but it didn’t stop his body from jolting and his heart, whatever was left of it, from aching. 

The shadow pet his hair, and laid by his side as he struggled with the realization that his life was gone. Everything he had taken for granted were things he would kill to experience again. 

His house. 

His students. 

His dogs. 

The rare colleague or two he got along with. He hadn’t considered them friends exactly, but they were kind and he enjoyed their rare company. 

He missed it all. He yearned for it. He just wanted to return to that life. Would that even be possible? How long would he remain like this? Brought back like this? Was it a fragile state? Was it only for a few moments? 

Had he gone to heaven or hell? He couldn’t remember. 

Eventually Will’s wailing faded into whining and rocking back and forth. The shadow felt soothing, holding him all the while. He cursed himself for succumbing to the shadow’s gentle touches. He was the catalyst of him being yanked out of hisignorant bliss. 

He wanted to hate him. 

“C...can I...go?” Will struggled to form the words. He wanted to go back to his life, if it were at all possible. He wanted to escape this dark hellish place, even if it meant leaving the seemingly-kind shadow. 

“No,” the shadow said, his voice soft directly against his ear. 

“W..why?” 

“I’ll explain it later.” the back of the shadow’s knuckle delicately rubbed the back of his arm. “We need to get you cleaned up.” 

“Ex..explain it n...now.” 

The shadow exhaled. 

“The spell says....if you leave the walls in which the spell was performed, you’ll die again.” 

_So I’m stuck here? Am I just an experiment?_

He glared at the shadow in the dark, though he doubted it could see his expression in the near pitch black. 

“You need to hydrate your throat. It may help you speak better.” He shuffled and lifted Will in the process. He continued to hold him, unsure of if Will would be able to walk. 

A brain rush flowed through Will’s body, making him dizzy. He clutched to the shadow again, steadying himself. 

“We have to go upstairs. Can you make it?” 

Will squinted and made out a pair of double doors nearby. He could run. He could make a break for it. He would die immediately after getting outside, if the spell held true. But would this crazy person just try to bring him back again? 

Will gave a terse nod and he began to walk. He was wobbly at first, but righted himself. He was barefoot and the marble was freezing beneath the soles of his feet, but it helped him focus on the task at hand. 

The sooner they got upstairs, the sooner he could make sense of the faceless shadow. 

Will felt the shadow’s presence behind him, hovering, in case he fell, as he walked up the enclosed staircase toward a sliver of light shining from under a closed door. 

He reached out for the handle and and opened it. 

It was a quaint little studio flat, an open space with a small kitchenette, sitting room, and large full bookshelf. A queen sized bed was pushed up against the far side. It was nothing extraordinary. 

All he needed was light. 

He stepped inside and immediately looked down at his own right hand, disgusted at the sight. His skin was a complete soft shade of light-grey and the purple veins were thick, spreading out along his entire appendage. Surely, his entire body looked like that. 

He was a monstrosity. A putrid, undead nightmare. 

He couldn’t leave even if he tried. 

His hope for a possibility of normalcy and going back to his life was gone in an instant. 

_What does it matter? I’m stuck in this building anyway._

Will heard the shadow move inside and shut the door before heading into the kitchenette. He didn’t turn around. Terrified of who the man was. Why he had done it. What his plans were. 

He heard the refrigerator door open and shut, before the steps began shuffling toward him. 

“This may help,” the shadow said. His voice sounded different. Not echoey as it had in the room downstairs. He sounded more human-like. “Your throat must be very dry.” 

Will slowly turned to face the shadow. 

He studied the man’s face, focusing on his lips, his cheekbones. He dared to look into the man’s eyes for a brief moment before breaking the contact again. 

He didn't look evil. Not like he had any ill-will. He looked like a normal man. He looked kind. 

_What do you want with me then?_

He was handsome. And he looked worried for him. 

Genuinely worried. 

Will accepted the open bottle of purified water and took a small sip. The water coated his throat and he savored it, before closing his eyes and tipping the entire bottle back, chugging the small bottle in its entirety before coming up gasping. 

“Slowly,” the man said, taking the empty bottle from him. 

The man placed it into a small recycling bin and made his way back over to him. 

“Is that better?” He asked. 

Will had never had anyone look at him with such a soft expression. 

“What’s your name?” He said without a hitch, his throat no longer parched. 

“Hannibal.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is getting away from me!! It started off being 4 chapters, and then 5, and now I’m not sure how long it will be! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying! I love your comments! Please don’t stop!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment of your thoughts! I would love to know if you enjoyed it or what you thought! I never write scary stuff like this because I’m baby, so please be nice! 
> 
> I'm really nervous for how this fic will do because it's unlike anything I've ever written before so please leave a comment if you liked it and are excited for the rest!


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